"Quit These Hills"
by Peter Anderson
I lean out the window again, craning my neck upward to look at the sky, never removing my hand from the steering wheel. Still no good, I think, as I duck my head back into the car, returning my eyes to the road speeding beneath me. The clouds never seem to give me the thick bank of cover I need, with the moon peeking out again and again. Complete darkness is required, no moonlight.
At least I've left the streetlights far behind, their last bit of fake amber glare fading away maybe ten minutes ago, on the outskirts of Williston. But I must still be close to town, too close, for the power lines continue along, their peaks and dips following beside me on my journey, my mission, my unpleasant task. The presence of power lines means I have yet to reach nowhere—those lines are taking their power to someplace or someone, and as long as that place or person is nearby I haven't gone nearly far enough.
I need remoteness and darkness, and those power lines and that peekaboo full moon show me I still have neither. Remoteness is needed to avoid strangers passing in their cars, darkness to prevent any that do pass from spotting what I'm hauling out of my trunk and dragging into the woods.
I've got my shovel and a strong back. The job shouldn't take more than twenty minutes, and once it's done I'll be gone. I'll quit these hills, forever.